


curtain call

by orphan_account



Category: Misfits (TV 2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Creation Myth, Demon Deals Except Without Demons, F/M, M/M, Necromancy, Old Gods, Prophecies, Souls, guess u better read and find out, kind of, wink - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 20:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19027429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: And the magician says, "I am not a miracle worker. Everything must have a price."And the man says, "I know, but I am not afraid of death."And the magician says, "Then you must be a fool."





	curtain call

**Author's Note:**

> hello it's me, boo boo the fool. this one shud only b a few chapters long but if u know me, then well, ahem. anyway. hope u enjoy.

Simon hears about the magician on the worst day of his life.

 

He's at his sister's funeral, just turned twenty and shaking silently in grey as they fill the pews with faces she wouldn't have known, thinking, 'What a tragic way to go.'

 

"What a tragic way to go," someone sighs. A hushed murmur ripples through the small crowd at the front of the chapel, before it goes stunningly quiet. 

 

Simon blinks once, twice, three times. He doesn't cry. He is too busy thinking about all the ways he could have saved her, all the ways he ruined her life.

 

Dig up her corpse, set it alight, whispers a treacherous voice in his head. Give her everything she deserves. He fights the urge to cover his ears, not that it would help anyway. The voice is disturbing but familiar, because it's his own. 

 

He wants to see her again, one last time, the way she smiled and the way she laughed at nothing in particular, how she comforted him in his darkest moments.

 

But Simon will never see his sister again.

 

As they march solemnly out of the chapel, watching the hearse whisk her away, someone grabs him by the wrist and he whirls to face them. Grey skin and white hair, film covered eyes and a cold hand curled around his arm, they shush him frantically as he opens his mouth to cry out, eyes wide.

 

They look-- dead. 

 

When they lean in to whisper, Simon can feel their cracked lips on the shell of his ear.

 

"You can save her," they breathe, almost reverently, and Simon stumbles away from them in horror, wrenching his arm back.

 

“Don’t-- don’t fucking say that,” he manages, gritting his teeth together. “Who are you?”

 

"There is a price," they murmur, ignoring him, and Simon notices how far behind everyone else they are. They step forward and tap his chest with a long, mottled finger. Simon shudders at how cold they are. "But not money. Just your heart, boy, just your soul." 

 

“My soul?” Simon’s head is spinning just trying to keep up. “I don’t get it. She’s dead, I can’t save her anymore!”

 

They are shaking their head and moaning lowly, rocking back and forth, muttering, "Not her, not her, she is too important, she is not meant to die, she is not meant to die. You are disposable, you are suitable payment. The prophecy--"

 

"What are you saying?" Simon cries, blinking fast, heart beating faster. "I don't understand!"

 

They lean back in and grab his shoulder, mouth frothing slightly, eyes wild. "Follow the untrodden road, child. He will find you. The magician will find you."

 

And then, they're gone. Simon is left standing alone in the middle of the street, a grimy handprint on his suit jacket, and wonders. Wonders who that person was, with their cold skin and purple lips, white eyes and dirty hands. Wonders who, where this magician is. Wonders if he can bring his sister back for the low price of his soul. 

 

Simon has to bring his sister back before she is in the ground. Her burial is in two days. 

 

Follow the untrodden road, he thinks. Follow the untrodden road. Where do people not go? Where are people not meant to walk? He thinks about graveyards and chapel aisles and highways, about how his sister died. If there is any path less travelled on foot, he muses, it would be the place she lost her life.

 

Welcome to the fast lane, he thinks, morbid and humourless. Fitting last words. In his nightmares, it's him that pushes her into the road, him that dashes her to the ground and watches her get swept away by the lorry. 

 

She had died instantly. There are always small mercies, he supposes. But the stranger was right. She was not meant to die.

 

Simon straightens his back. Two days to find the magician. Two days to get his sister back.

 

Time is of essence, he thinks.

 

Somewhere across the city, a man who holds the winding tape of time in his hands laughs and says to the air,  _ ‘Oh, the irony.’ _

 

xx

 

The magician is waiting for him at the crossroad between highways, hoodie pulled up and baseball cap pulled down over his face. It doesn't hide the wildness of his hair, or the glint of knowing eyes, but as far as Simon knows, he is the only one who can see him.

 

"The power of persuasion, my love," the magician calls to him, a lilting melody in his voice as he shifts from one leg to another. Simon startles, wondering if the man can read minds, but the magician waves him closer and says, "I can't read your mind, sweetheart. I've just met a lot of desperate men like you. Although," he pauses, as if sizing Simon up as he walks towards him, before saying, "There is something different about you." Simon can see a flash of a grin before the man's face is shadowed again. "You must be Bellamy's brother. As the legends foretold! I am honoured."

 

"What are you talking about?" Simon asks, cautiously. "How do you know my last name?" 

 

The magician shrugs. "All will be revealed in due time," he says simply. "Now what do you want? You called me here for a reason, did you not?"

 

Simon swallows uncertainly. "It's my sister," he says. "She died."

 

The magician freezes, and the world seems to stop with him. 

 

"Oh," he says. "Oh, no."

 

"Did-- did you not know?" Simon steps forward anxiously. "Then-- who told me to find you? Someone told me to come to you-- they were like if the dead could walk. Didn't you send them?"

 

"No, no, no," the man mutters, cradling his head in his hands. "Oh, no, no no no. This is bad. This is very bad. If she sent you-- oh, no, no no."

 

"Can you please tell me what's going on?" Simon cries, and the magician's head snaps up to fix Simon with a stare that turns his blood cold.

 

"Listen here, you little twat," the man says, a kind of petrified rage instilled in every word. "Something very big and very bad is happening. And if you don't want to get caught up in it, I suggest you prance that cute little arse of yours straight home to mummy, understand?"

 

"No," says Simon, and he feels a strange calm flow through him. He feels bigger than his body, as if he's left it, and when the magician looks him in the eye, he sees him for what he truly is. He sees something curling around him, a kind of power not meant for mankind. He sees the green in his eyes and recognises the magician for how ancient he is. When he looks, he sees a shift in demeanor. When he looks, he finds power.

 

Simon is terrified.

 

"She is my sister," he states, trying not to shake, standing his ground, and he feels the magician level him with an even stare. "I need to help her. I am here to bring her back."

 

And the magician says, "I am not a miracle worker. Everything must have a price."

 

And the man says, "I know, but I am not afraid of death."

 

And the magician says, "Then you must be a fool."

 

Simon shakes his head. "I will do what I have to do," he replies, and the magician huffs a laugh. When Simon opens his eyes, he jerks back at the proximity of their faces, but the magician grabs his jaw to keep him in place.

 

"You are doing a very noble thing," the magician murmurs. "But a deal is a deal, a soul for a soul. Are you willing to sell yourself to forces beyond your comprehension for your sister?"

 

"I will do what I have to do," Simon repeats stubbornly. The magician smiles softly.

 

"Oh, sweetheart," he mutters. “You have no idea.” Before Simon can ask what he means, the magician ducks down to press a kiss to his lips, soft and inviting and hungry. Simon squeaks in surprise, before inhaling sharply and leaning in, just as the magician parts from him, leaving him feeling cold and bereft. He isn't sure if it's from touch starvation or from whatever the magician has done to him to solidify their pact. 

 

A soul for a soul.

 

"Are you a demon?" Simon blurts. He flushes red as soon as he realises how stupid that sounds, clenching his jaw in irritation at himself, but the magician just hums.

 

"Me being a demon would imply the existence of angels, which would imply the existence of a god. And I can tell you for certain, Simon Bellamy," he says, grinning sharply. "That if there were an all knowing god out there, there is no way that someone such as myself would be allowed to walk this earth."

 

"What are you, then?" Simon's brow furrows, and the magician laughs, although it seems sad.

 

"Oh, this one?” He seems to think for a moment, absentmindedly tugging at the strings of his hoodie. "Just a lucky bastard who refused to die. Very charming, in his way. I think he’s my favourite so far. But it’s been a very long time, Simon. He’s mostly gone by now.” 

 

“I don’t understand,” Simon says. The magician laughs.

 

“You don’t understand much, do you?” He digs his hands into his pockets. “That’s okay. She’ll find you, tonight. The deal is done.”

 

“Who?” Simon asks, desperation in his voice. “Stop being so cryptic, what’s going on?”

 

“Death, Simon.” the magician says simply. “Just death.”

 

And with that, he’s gone. 

 

Simon stands at the crossroads for a very long time before he remembers to go home. 

 

He doesn't stop to wonder why that is. He doesn't think about how the magician knew his name.

 

xx

 

Simon dreams of the end of the world and death in flannel.

 

"You've gone and gotten yourself caught up in something you don't understand now, haven't you?" The woman tuts, hands in her pockets as she pokes at a pile of rubble with the toe of her doc martens. "Idiot."

 

"Who are you?" Simon asks, bewildered at his surroundings and the girl insulting him. "Where are we? Am I dreaming?"

 

"I'm someone you're very familiar with, Simon," she sighs. "And yeah, you are, but both myself and this vision are very real. It doesn't matter, though. I'm here to help return something that's been taken.”

 

"My sister," Simon breathes out, eyes wide as he remembers what the magician said. "You're death."

 

The girl shrugs. "In essence. It is my job title, I guess."

 

"I didn't know that death was a chav," Simon blurts out, and the girl glowers at him, kohl lined eyes seeming to glow blue.

 

"Watch your fucking tongue," she snaps. "I don't know what he told you, but you're right in the middle of something incredibly dangerous, the eye of the fucking storm. I'm here to offer you a choice. Someone sent you to us, someone who  most probably only has their own interests at heart, so I need you to listen to me."

 

"He?" Simon asks. "Do you mean the magician?"

 

Death waves a hand impatiently. "Yeah, that prick. He didn't tell you everything you were supposed to know before you gave your heart to him, so I have to clean up his mess, yet again." She pauses, surveying him. "Although, I can see why, this time." Simon opens his mouth to ask a question, but she hushes him. "I can give you your soul back, before it's too late. Before he raises her."

 

"Why?" Simon doesn't understand. "I need her back, my parents need her back. She wasn't supposed to die."

 

Death shakes her head. "No, she wasn't. But the prophecy, it's--" She seems like she's going to say something else, but there's a clap of thunder, and she shudders. "He's preparing. Make your choice, boy, you're running out of time."

 

"I don't understand," he says, feeling like an idiot for how many times he's said it in the past day. "What is he going to do with it? My soul? How is he bringing her back? Why does everyone seem to know about her? The magician mentioned a prophecy. What prophecy? And who is the magician, really?"

 

Death shakes her head, frantic. "So many questions, too little time." The sky rumbles again, and she flinches. "I shouldn't be here," she hisses. "Shit, shit, shit. I'm sorry, Simon. I'm so sorry."

 

And then, she's gone. Simon is left in the burning ruins of earth before everything fades into black. He does not dream after that, and he won't, not for a very long time.

 

xx

 

The next day, after work, Simon slides into his regular seat the pub and waves at Alisha, who grins and fills a pint for him.

 

“Simon!” She chirps as she trots over. “How are you? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages!”

 

“Hey,” he says tiredly. “Sorry about that. It’s-- my sister. She’s--”

 

He stops himself from continuing as he remembers yesterday, the deal, the dream, the promise of his sister returning. She’s coming back, he thinks blearily, and blinks a couple of times. “She’s been really sick,” he finishes lamely. “She almost died.” It’s the best he can come up with on the spot.

 

Alisha’s face drops, and Simon puzzles at the way she schools her features from confusion into concern and worry. “Oh, Simon, I’m so sorry,” she says softly, eyes big and sad. “I-- look, if there’s anything me and Curtis can do, just say the word, yeah?”

 

Simon nods and takes a long sip of his beer. “Thank you,” he mumbles, voice rough. “It’s been a bit of a week.”

 

Alisha coos at him in sympathy. “I feel you. Look, whatever you want tonight, it’s on the house, you hear me? No arguments!”

 

He smiles weakly at her and she places her hand over his, placing a soft kiss on his forehead. He feels the same dizzy rush he always does when she touches him and leans into it, craving human contact after so many days of isolating himself, shuddering at the cold when she walks off to attend to others at the bar. He isn’t sure if it’s leftover from his unfortunate crush on her when they first met, or if she just has that effect on everyone. Curtis is a lucky man, he muses to himself.

 

He’s finishing off his steak pie when Curtis wanders up to him, brows drawn close in concern. “Hey,” he greets Simon, clapping his shoulder from over the counter. “Lisha told me about your sister. Look man, I’m really sorry, yeah? Jus’ let us know if you need anything, somewhere to crash for a bit so you’re not alone, a night out on the town, anything. I know you’re having a bit of a rough time, so if you need us to take your mind off it, just give us a shout.”

 

Simon just nods. He feels emotion rising up his throat and threatening to burst forth, so he says nothing, and Curtis ruffles his hair before going back to his job.

 

He has a lot more alcohol after that, and Alisha and Curtis walk him home after closing time, silently supporting him as he stumbles and cries.

 

“I’ve made a mistake,” he mumbles, and Alisha glances at Curtis, who shrugs. “I’ve made a mistake-- I sold it. I sold it. It’s gone.”

 

“What’s gone, Simon?” Alisha asks gent;y. “What did you sell?”

 

Simon laughs and pats his chest. “Just my heart. Just my soul,” he says, before toppling to the ground.

 

He doesn’t quite catch Alisha’s urgent cry of, “Shit! Shit, Curtis, what the fuck is going on?” and Curtis’ “I don’t know, fuck! Call Nathan, this is his job!” because his vision is fading and his hearing is going fuzzy. The last thing he sees is a flash of white, and then, he’s gone. 

 

Simon doesn’t dream.


End file.
